The examination room smells like antiseptic and choices I'm not ready to make. Dr. Ortega sits across from me, clipboard balanced on her knee, expression carefully neutral in the way medical professionals practice like an art form.
"Six weeks." She confirms what the plastic stick already told me. "One child. Early, but healthy indicators so far."
One child. Jake's child. Growing inside me while he exists somewhere in Texas, living a life that doesn't include my voice or my face or any knowledge of what we created together.
"How did this happen?" The question sounds stupid even as it leaves my mouth. "I was on the shot."
Dr. Ortega's pen taps against her clipboard. "When was your last injection?"
I think back. The chaos of my father's decline. Hospital visits bleeding into board meetings bleeding into sleepless nights. Something cold settles in my stomach.
"I missed the appointment." The realization lands like a verdict. "Everything was falling apart with my father, and I forgot."
"That would explain it." Her voice holds no judgment. "The shot requires consistent timing. A missed dose, combined with unprotected intercourse—"
"I understand." I cut her off because hearing the clinical explanation doesn't change the result.
Dr. Ortega sets down her clipboard and leans forward slightly. "Adison, I need to discuss your options with you. You have several paths forward."
My hands grip the edge of the examination table. "I asked because I need to know everything. Even the things I don't want to hear."
"Of course." She nods, professional and kind. "You can continue the pregnancy. You can terminate. Both are medically safe at this stage."
Terminate. The word hangs in the sterile air between us.
"I don't know if he'll accept this." My voice comes out smaller than I intended. "The father. We're not—things are complicated."
"That's understandable." Dr. Ortega's expression softens. "Many women in your situation face similar uncertainty. You don't have to decide today."
"I need time." The words feel like both truth and excuse. "To think. To figure out what this means."
"Take whatever time you need." She hands me a folder of paperwork. "My office is here when you're ready."
I thank her. Collect my things. Walk out of the office on legs that feel borrowed from someone else.
The car waits at the curb, sleek and black and familiar. I slide into the backseat, and the driver pulls smoothly into Manhattan traffic.
My phone buzzes. News alert.
Richard Ward, CEO of Ward Enterprises, Dies Following Battle with Pancreatic Cancer.
The words blur. I knew this was coming. I knew that the news release was scheduled for today. But seeing it reduced to a headline—public property now, consumed by strangers—makes something in my chest crack open fresh.
Then my phone rings.
Jake's name glows on the screen, and the breath leaves my body like I've been punched.
I stare at it. One ring. Two. My finger hovers over the screen, trembling with every possibility contained in that simple green button.
I answer.
"Adison." His voice is low and rough and carries genuine concern that cuts straight through me. "I saw the news. About Richard. Are you okay?"
The tenderness in his tone undoes something I didn't know I was holding together. For one heartbeat, I'm the woman he loved. The woman who ran away to Texas and found him waiting.
Then the anger hits.
"Why do you care?" The words come out sharp. Defensive. "Days, Jake. A lot of days of nothing. And now you call?"
"Hold on." His voice hardens at the edges. "You sent me away. You told me to leave. What was I supposed to do—ignore everything you asked for?"
"You were supposed to fight." I hate how desperate that sounds. How much it reveals. "You were supposed to prove that what we had mattered more than my fear."
"That's not fair." Something raw bleeds through his words. "I gave you exactly what you demanded. Space. Distance. Time to handle your situation without me complicating everything."
"And it never occurred to you to reach out? To check if I was surviving?"
"Funny question coming from someone who never reached out either." His counter lands precisely. "Phone works both ways, Adison. You had my number. You chose not to use it."
The accusation stings because it's true. I chose silence. Chose pride over vulnerability. Chose to suffer alone rather than admit I needed him.
"That's different—"
"How? How is it different?" His frustration matches mine now. "You asked me to disappear. I disappeared. Now you're angry that I did exactly what you wanted?"
"I wanted you to know me better than I know myself." The confession escapes before I can stop it. "I wanted you to see through what I was saying to what I actually needed."
"I'm not a mind reader." His voice drops. Tired. Sad. "And you're not a woman who appreciates people ignoring her stated wishes. You taught me that yourself."
The silence stretches. Heavy with everything we can't say. Everything that's changed since the last time we spoke.
Then another call interrupts. Zachary's name flashing over Jake's.
An escape. An out. A way to end this conversation before I say something I can't take back.
"I have to go." I hear myself say it. I hate myself for the relief underneath. "Someone else is calling."
"Adison, wait—"
I switch lines.
"Miss Adison." Zachary's voice is warm. Worried. Present in ways Jake hasn't been for weeks. "The news of Richard's death has already been released. When will you arrive at the office?"
"Soon." I manage the word through the tightness in my throat. "Twenty minutes."
"I'll have everything prepared. Coffee, the documents that I talked about yesterday, whatever you need." His attentiveness wraps around me like a blanket I didn't ask for but can't quite refuse. "You shouldn't be alone right now. I'll be around all day."
"Thank you, Zachary."
I end the call and lean my head against the window. The city blurs past—glass and steel and millions of lives continuing while mine hangs suspended between impossible choices.
Jake, who disappeared when I needed him most. Whose absence carved a hole in my chest.
Zachary, whose presence I never requested. Who shows up anyway, steady and certain, filling spaces I didn't know were empty.
Two men. Two versions of what caring looks like. Neither of them complete. Neither of them wrong.
And growing inside me, the complication that changes everything.
My phone buzzes. Text message.
Jake: We need to talk.
I stare at the words. Feel the weight of them pressing against my ribs, demanding attention I'm not ready to give.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
Then I lock my phone and turn to stare out the window.
The city keeps moving. Traffic and lights and people rushing toward futures they can predict. I watch it all blur past and wonder which version of myself will emerge from this moment.
The one who runs toward love, consequences be damned.
Or the one who learned too well what running costs.